


Battle of Giants

by nuritacobarrubias



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuritacobarrubias/pseuds/nuritacobarrubias
Summary: Suddenly everything was going bewilderingly fast.





	Battle of Giants

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after 5x02’s-Jaha’s-death-scene.  
> This is obviously Kabby centric. But, it may also be my particular love letter to Marcus Kane. I'll be here waiting for him to get out if that cryo pod. Hopelessly devoted.

 

“Kane, come on. We have to move him. _Now_.”

He could hardly register Octavia's apologetic pleading, hurrying him with the most determination he had heard from her since the ultimate Conclave. She was trying to reach his rational mind, to break the intimate bubble of mourning they were currently trapped in and spur him to sensible action. But he could barely move, only being able to feel Abby's head supported on his shoulder - face turned back down, hiding her grief, but unable to veil her sobbing despair. That and the spot where his brow still made contact with his disheartening cooling forehead.

For all Thelonius Jaha had done and become in the last months, both in the Ark and on the ground, he would always remain the man that had played such a momentous role in their lives.

Their leader, their mentor, their friend.

Not even the most unpardonable of his recent mistakes would ever erase the fact that he'd always been there.

Since the very beginning.

He was saying goodbye to Jaha, the political animal who had perceived the potential inside him even before he’d had any clue himself.

_‘You have a strength that is not weakened by sentiment and that’s exactly what is going to take for us to survive.’_

Oh, how _wrong_ he'd been.

Ark-version Councillor Marcus Kane had incorrectly believed in that moment in time that unfortunately, he may have made a point. That statement had surprised him as much as hurt him. Yes, he'd always shown resolute firmness while affronting political dilemmas... But he'd _never_ been devoid of sentiment. His inner self had always been fighting against conflicting feelings because somehow Chancellor Jaha had always shown him that obscuring all emotion was synonym of might, so therefore, a higher chance of assuring the survival of the human race.

He wasn't aware he had made such a damned good job at it that people believed he was bereft of... humanity.

He didn't want that. He'd never wanted that. And the ground had unpredictably provided the perfect opportunity to mend it. He had never believed he’d been looking for redemption, as Abby had once reproached him. He had just been trying to release himself and be the man he had subconsciously always wanted to be; had actually always been.

His strength wasn't weakened by sentiment. As a matter of fact, he had realized it was invigorated by empathy, understanding, tolerance, mercy, kindness, _love_. The delinquents’ struggles, the grounders’ perception, but above all, _Abby,_ had made him realise that. Jaha’s words had been a spark that had inadvertently ignited the razing fire within him.

Indeed Jaha may had been wrong all along, but still... Thelonius had been his friend. Maybe in another lifetime, to another Marcus. To _Kane_. It was satirical, really, how it seemed they had evolved in opposite directions converging fatefully in that moment in time, with those words.

In spite of everything, Marcus Kane needs to bid farewell to Thelonious Jaha and acknowledge the lasting impact of his influence in his former life.

He can't even pretend to understand how Abby must be feeling right now too...

“Marcus…” Abby's trembling voice broke through the fog. It seemed she had a habit of doing that, showing him the way out of the dark. But the urgency and the despair in her tone brought him back to the ambivalent situation. He had known they’d had to address the subject sooner rather than later. They had already discussed and decided what to do with corpses, he just didn't expect Thelonious Jaha would be included in the first batch of dead population they'd have to incinerate in the bunker.

Even though they couldn't do anything to save Jaha now, they could still honour and respect his corpse to at least pay his life homage and burn him in an intimate service. They still had to avoid the instability spreading like a virus through the chaotic corridors of the bunker, and the justified hatred rising towards any traces left of the Skaikru insurgency, adequately represented by someone as Thelonius Jaha. Osleya's impressive trampling of any kind of uprising against Wonkru and her sovereignty was too recent and localized in a too specific part of their new shared home, so there was still a possibility that they couldn't make it away from there and safeguard his corpse.

Both Abby and Octavia were urging him to think, to work and lead together, as they should. So he came round, rose along with Abby balancing both of them and started issuing consistent orders. “Eric, go bring us a stretcher, blankets, and... find Nylah. She'll help us with some grounders' clothes. Octavia...” he faltered for a moment. He shared a pointed knowing look with Indra. “You should go with Indra. Finish whatever it is you started to fix this.”

They'd have to be discreet.

Octavia not so much.

They were already starting to move and comply when Kane put a strong reassuring hand on Octavia's shoulder. “I believe in you. You know I do.”

 

***********

 

_Abby's hand was clasping his._

Jaha was dead.

_Her fingertips were absent-mindedly caressing his battered knuckles._

They were burning him.

_Her body was seeking contact and comfort leaning into his own._

Gaia was solemnly pronouncing his name while officiating the cremation service.

_She was alive and safe inside the bunker._

They were the last of their generation left standing.

 

Suddenly everything was going bewilderingly fast.

He could hardly breathe.

 

It was ironic, the last 46 days had gone by excruciatingly, painfully slow. Nothing ever happened. Nothing never seemed worth it. Yes, they were building a new society, setting the rules for a new reality and struggling to coexist and survive, once again, in dreadful conditions. That should entail challenge enough to keep senses alert. But his world had become unbearably grey and dull. Ever since Praimfaya hit and Abby woke up from the gas.

He did what he did. He had always been a man that honourably accepted accountability for his decisions and he had known the exact same moment he'd given the order to save her life - going against her explicit wishes - he would be somehow losing her in spite of it all.

But never in a million years would he have imagined the cruelty of learning from a worried and desperate Jackson that her health was seriously deteriorating every day and that she was in need of an urgent life or death risky treatment recommended by Raven just five minutes prior to the definitive radio silence.

She'd have to actually _die_ in order to live.

And she wasn't even speaking to him.

Nor sparing him a glance.

Well, her wrath he’d expected and could take, but he wasn't ready to witness her deterioration and sorrowful vulnerability helplessly from afar.

So many of her recent decisions and behaviour started to make sense to him then.

She wasn't in fact expecting to survive the bunker.

She thought she didn't deserve a spot to the detriment of another healthy soul.

She didn't even feel worthy of survival because of what had happened in Becca's lab.

She was afraid she'd lost herself and wouldn't even have the time to redeem herself.

She dreaded she'd destroy him even further if he ever were to behold her slow downfall.

The reality behind her reasoning became clear as water to him.

He wouldn’t have survived those first days if Jackson hadn't taken pity on him despite his former distaste for his guts. Jackson was a full of empathy observer as well as an emotionally intelligent young man so he couldn't ignore Kane's atonement journey since the Ark's demise and the evidence of Kane and Abby's mutual feelings.

It seemed both extraordinary phenomena were correlative.

Those were the reasons why Jackson decided to intercede on Kane's behalf to gain for both of them a humanitarian needed truce during her scary ice bath process. And somewhere between working to break through Abby's crumbling determination and sneaking around to fill him on her condition, they had somehow upgraded to each other from Kane and Jackson to Marcus and Eric.

Abby couldn't avoid noticing the development during her conversations with Jackson, a sarcastic raised eyebrow the only revealing detail of her bothered incredulity. Of course the men of her life should become friends by cooperating behind her in regards to her well being. Not surprising at all.

But the ice bath had worked (or so categorically affirmed Eric and the recurring tests) Marcus believed him, he was a good doctor, he'd been tutored by the best after all. Perhaps her brain had been fixed but still there was something that didn't resound correctly. She always appeared exhausted and irascible, even from a distance. Eric kept on reasoning with him that apart from the obvious bunker stress and possible post intervention rehabilitation, she wasn't taking their separation as well as she tried to pretend. He shared she wasn't resting or eating as she should and even hesitantly confessed to him he usually overheard her crying herself to sleep at night.

Abby was more than likely dealing with a depression.

That didn't explain though why Eric had refused to bring her pills while they were being restrained by Cooper mere hours ago, or his pained expression while doing so. Something was definitely off. But he could only address one crisis at a time, so that detail escaped his mind puzzle for the time being.

They’d had found themselves restrained inevitably together to the uncertain side of an insurrection, which uncannily served as the perfect setting for him to finally break through her. Marcus Kane could have easily anticipated it would all start with a reminiscence of the passion subjacent in all their legendary heated arguments, engaging in an emotional factual battle. But Abby Griffin could have never foreseen the unpreventable impasse they'd come to - the magical calm before the storm. The distant arpeggios of a soft acoustic guitar coming from the adjacent room provided the ideal music score to frame Kane's last resource to reach her: heartfelt words of original poetry whispered ad-lib. He had inadvertently turned into an overpowering apocalyptic 22nd century jongleur.

 

So here they were, still holding hands after the cremation ceremony as the people gradually left the room. Nothing had really been fixed between them yet. But everything had surely shifted.

Things were most assuredly going bewilderingly fast.

But he could finally breathe again.

 

***********

 

The moment the door closed behind them in her small makeshift bedroom inside medical, their bodies inelegantly crashed together in desperation - eyes closed tight, lights still out. Both sets of arms worked urgently to moor their wrapped closeness, fingertips turning white while clutching clothes. They were so wearied of repressing instincts and natural tendencies. So wounded, so damned exhausted of countering their corporal gravitational pull.

He had been going out of his mind seeing her every day without being able to touch her; and every cell of her body had been screaming at her to demolish the obstinate wall and put an end to their nonsensical separation, to just turn around and admit the intense effect of his ever present eyes on her back.

She grabbed his face in search for his complete regard. She had to make sure he _knew_ (before he started to make her forget). Their eyes adjusted to the dim light stemming through the doorframe shutting out the remainders of the rest of the world.

“You know I'd open that door to save you a thousand times more too and that scares m-“

“I know. I do. I know,” he shushed her rasped breaking plea. He couldn't bear to hear her trembling voice toppling for his mind to grasp what he had already assimilated.

She was a miracle: a corporal-spirit living contradiction. She seemed so small like this, so vulnerable. But he knew she was probably stronger than anyone left alive, definitely way stronger than he could ever be. He didn't ever want to see her crumbling for anything, much less because of him. He exhaled all his pent up emotion in one single sigh, embraced her peacefully and bowed his head a little under ninety degrees to pour all his relief in a soft kiss delivered to the parting of her recent hair-down style.

In that same moment they both comprehended what had been lying beneath their relationship’s surface from the beginning: they didn’t need any healing. Explanations or excuses weren’t required for them to still cherish each other in spite of the circumstances. Their bond had grown, survived and evolved in critical situations preceded by their complicated history.

Understanding was the very touchstone of their love.

They could embrace their respective flaws and darkness because those had been significant reagents in their romance. She didn’t have to explain, he didn’t need to apologize. Nothing could be fixed, not now nor ever; but they could prevail. They were meant to endure all that had happened; and sooner or later, they would overcome all the perils that would surely come in their new bunker life. Clarke would surely find the way to get them out of there once the rest of the gang came back from the Ark.

Hope had to be once again everything.

It should always be.

They were stronger together.

Separated, they were not at all.

Their mouths sought one another avidly, opening immediately after first contact, devouring each other's hunger only to sow with every stroke of tongue an even higher sense of craving. They couldn't help it, it had been far too long and unacceptable since they had last kissed (the moment he entered the bunker and held her for life after she had fought with tooth and nail to open the door to save him) and their lips had been still tingling from their almost dazzling brush some hours ago while in chains.

Marcus took hold of Abby's cheeks without ceasing contact to bring her closer still, to accentuate the feeling of the inner part of his bottom lip swinging sensually with the seam of her lips, to mould them as he pleased in every new charge of his mouth. She moaned as she used to every time he tried that move on the furred blankets of that luxurious Polis bed, always a teasing promise of what he was about to do with his mouth to all the erogenous parts of her body.

His lust immediately responded to the vocal manifestation of her arousal; with his hands still holding her in place, he kept kissing her and bent his knees slightly to stroke suggestively her groin with the hardening bulge tenting his trousers, taking both of them towards the closed door with the oblivious vigour of his enthusiasm.

“You've been driving me crazy this last month,” he justified against her ear. A breathy laugh escaped her smiling lips once her back rested against the hatch, his hands pressed reverently upon her breasts, and her throat immediately attacked by his moist mouth; kissing, caressing and licking with the most efficient skill to get her hips to roll unbridled and her panties to get wetter. She felt lighter, her omnipresent headache receding. It looked to her like she could indeed fight fire with fire. To hell with her unsteady hands, she could put them to good use.

Driven by passion and the long absence of his body inside hers, her fingers started their favourite journey: from getting lost in his lush head of perfect locks; ambling her nails by his sexy beard; raising unrefined to half mast - to let her lips reencounter the vast terrain of his chest and stomach - that goddamn tight-fitting grey t-shirt that drove her mad with desire and annoyance (how could such a simple piece of clothing come to be that insistently tantalizing); to groping the straining outline of his confined tempting cock.

He was going crazy indeed. And a little bit dizzy and weak-kneed. It had been too long. But he wanted to remain in control. He knew if he let her set the pace, it all would last... well; let's say he wanted to at least improve their first time’s mark (thank god they’d had all night long and more rounds to make up for first impressions).

Thus, taking advantage of her absorption in her surroundings, he removed the clever hands working on her breasts and finally took off his creased t-shirt, then moved them south, taking an enticing detour to fondle her buttocks with his whole open palms. Half self-indulgence, half strategy in the knowledge that few things turned her on that fast during foreplay. When they arrived at their destination, he seized the back of her knees and effortlessly lifted her up.

She gasped out of surprise, her ministrations cut short abruptly; yet she quickly caught on, getting hold of his shoulders and wrapping her legs around his waist in a bolt, supporting her minute weight against him. She'd always had strong extremities, he'd always wondered if she needed them to hold up all that extraordinary energy of determination, defiance and stubbornness living inside of such a tiny torso. He loved them either way, so he took the chance to feel her thighs while carrying her to the couple of mattresses stuck up on a corner of the floor. She made the most of her time and spent it scraping her teeth below his ear, the zone where neck and jaw met and the first short and scratchy facial hairs gave rise.

He kneeled on the bed as soon as they reached it and proceeded to take her blue long sleeve shirt off. She still had her flimsy white tank top on but he was sure he'd combust if he didn't get a little taste of real skin on skin contact straightaway, so he laid them on the sheets and kissed her, pressing her down with his entire body. She let out a satisfied sigh; she had missed his weight on top of her and she could finally relish his naked trunk. But he had other ideas.

He ducked his head below and gradually pushed aside her tank top with his nose amidst every movement of his rolling lips on pilgrimage on her skin. Neither one of them could predict the itinerary, gliding from her belly to her stomach, down to the perimeter of her pants, up to the hem of her bra...

She’d had enough. She sensed and appreciated what he wanted to do, but there was frankly no need for it. Hence, she sat up taking him on his haunches - all business like - and hastily ripped off her bra along with the remaining tank top, thoroughly ignoring their landing place.

He had missed so much...

He awoke from the hedonistic trance he was immersed in once he registered the resounding vibration of her dexterous fingers carefully unzipping his trousers, minding the protuberant dilation the zip fly had to defy. He stopped her from lowering them down altogether. Abby knew (even from the limited experience groomed together) that Marcus was unbendable when he was in this kind of mood, so she opted to yield trifling terrain and flow with the stream, ending horizontally interweaved on top of the sheets. She supposed both would gain from the courtesy either way.

They seized the moment to reacquaint themselves with the savour of her breasts in his mouth, the tactile sense of her nails on his shoulder blades, the texture of her nipples on his fingertips, the pressure of her palms on his arse.

She felt already so on edge she needed to show him, so she unfastened her pants and swiftly took his left hand to squeeze it inside her knickers. Regardless of knowing their way around, his fingers lost all kind of adherence as soon as they crossed the feathery mantle of pubic hairs and unexpectedly slipped beyond his aim, skidding down to the inner side of her underpants. He could still feel, with the external part of his fingers, the wetness gathered on the drenched fabric.

“Fuck, Abby,” he laboriously whispered. He could barely be lucid with his cock twitching desperately at the evocative reminiscence of her luring welcome home. She had to smirk though, he'd been eloquent enough to sum up the two basic concepts he needed to concentrate on. She couldn't keep the smirk though when his hand found its trail back up to its goal, dragging his middle finger along all the surface up to dance with her clit. She had to open her mouth to breath, her body needed more air with the frenetic reaction his circular rubbing movements provided. Her resulting moans were totally involuntary and oblivious.

“Come on,” she incited laving his earlobe with her lips and tongue. His determination finally broke (he figured his performance later could be categorised as irrelevant if she was already this close to orgasm). He rose and finally rid himself of his remaining clothing, leaving her high and... technically _not_ dry. She wasn't mad however: he was catching up at last. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t be overtaken and therefore discarded all her garments before he did. The mattresses scarcely held the bed together a couple of feet above the floor, which worked in Abby's favour to win the race and lunge from behind at his neck with ruthless kisses, and his chest with savage caresses.

He turned his upper body around, just how he needed to snatch her waist and bring her astride. She went willingly, happy to move things forward on her terms. From this position she could gaze at him from above; she rarely enjoyed that privilege. She bent her forehead to rest on his and let their noses touch. She loved that nose of his... it was such an intrinsic trait of who he was: unique, masculine, appealing, charismatic, sexy.

They had always excelled at non-verbal communication. Even back when they made themselves believe their electricity was antagonistic. That’s why they kissed like they conversed; each one exposing their own take, absorbing the other’s bilateral offering and striking back with even more conviction and passion.

As they dissolved, clinging to each other's mouths and lips, she used the occasion to grind herself onto him. His cock was achingly erect, deliciously trapped between his belly and her sex. Of course she wanted to taunt him, she delighted in playing with him, but she also sought her own pleasure with that move. Rubbing all her wetness along his length, she stimulated herself as well as lubricating him in the midst of the whole erotic siege.

“Please,” he downright begged. He could take no more, he was clenching the sheets with his supporting hands behind them and conveying with his eyes he was about to burn in a game-over kind of combustion. He took his right hand to cup her jaw, his thumb making contact with her lips; imploring for mercy the exact moment one of her diving onslaughts accidentally aligned the tip of his cock with her inviting entry.

He wasn't convinced it had been an unexpected result from her part though. She retreated and corrected the path, going back to the tortuous external friction; but she also took his thumb into her mouth and sucked on it in a more than suggestive way. He could still discern the smug regarding in her face even with his unfocussed eyes. The extrapolation while feeling the warm moist suction on his finger was inevitable, he was inexorably succumbing to delirium.

She eventually considered they had drawn near boiling point long enough. She gave his thumb one last lascivious lick for the road, stopped her bobbing movements - which captured his disoriented attention - slid one arm between their bodies to gently take his cock in hand, and ever so slowly guided it inside at last.

Before, the first inches in had always demanded a little bit of patience from them to avoid initial discomfort. That's why he groaned out in surprise when he found himself hitting bottom in just three brash rocking strives from her part.

She felt omnipotent, having him exactly where she wanted: utterly addicted, fenced in her body's ambush. For a moment, she thought it felt selfishly gratifying to represent the living personification of his dependence. She rapidly pushed the thought out of her mind. She wasn't going to dwell on the incitement of those kind of thoughts now or even let them taint their love somehow.

She slowed her pace to the oscillating motion of a sensuous helix. She wanted to change her mind's venue and relish the breathtaking pressure, the blazing friction of his cock’s ridges on her g-spot, the intense brown-eyed astonished gaze fixed on her eyes from below.

The overload of her progression was catching him off-balance. He enjoyed fucking her anyhow, anyways. But he was finding this the hottest yet; watching her above him, her breasts bouncing and skimming his skin, taking her own pleasure shamelessly, going animal-like then switching to erotic cruising speed, being used as a toy at her expense...

He was about to come.

Deep down he was sorry for getting in the way of her enjoyment, but he had no other option but to take control and switch positions so she was lying beneath him on her back. From on top, he continued to thrust into her but he kept the reins of the tempo and his composure. However, it seemed she didn't mind his sudden input; judging by her rapturous moans, the indecision of her legs among flexing, patting his calves with her toes, cradling his waist with force; the devotion of her hands on his working arms, his straining back; the deliberate continuous clenching of her cunt around his cock.

He was about to come.

Again.

 _Fuck_.

He strenuously withdrew, not knowing exactly how he'd managed such painful endeavour. She was struck by the abrupt retreat with momentary confusion, a whimpering cry of loss the unmistakable indicator. Until he started a straight, resolute downward route.

He had two goals in mind: giving himself a break to deter his imminent orgasm and gaining leverage giving her one. Urgently.

He took her legs and put them on his shoulders before going in for the kill, since he knew they would later provide the telltale quality indicator of his feat. She raised her hands above her head, arched her back in anticipation and braced for impact. He'd never disappointed the numbered times he'd had the chance to go down on her. He deemed giving head an inherent part of sex. Whenever he did this, it wasn't out of duty or to oblige assumed expectations (neither did she). He actually wanted to eat her alive (so did she).

He started with a lustful lick from her perineum to her pubic bone - an initial reconnaissance of the perimeter - followed by slow, circular diminishing ones enclosing the preferred area of influence. His lips, beard and teeth soon joined to play messily along with his tongue.

She was going to come.

Hard and fast.

He could perceive it with the gradual straining of her legs’ muscles on his shoulders, the tightening becoming exponentially alarming once it transferred to her whole body. She always approached climax as if her body was about to receive a mortal blow. And that kind of pure carnal exhibit caused even more agony on his sustained erection. For a second he was tempted to climb back up and feel her unforgiving contractions on his cock, swallow her bewildered moans with his mouth. But he knew that wouldn't exactly help with his earlier predicament so he piecemeal decreased his ministrations to let her ride the orgasm and help with the smooth landing.

Abby had other ideas, she didn't want a soft touchdown yet. “Come here,” she hoarsely dictated getting hold of his head and shoulder, urging him to ascend back up to kiss him groggily open-mouthed. “Fuck me,” she faintly commanded against his lips.

He kissed her with even more frenzy, he was sure he'd embarrass himself by emitting wailing sounds otherwise. He'd never heard those explicit words from her before and he found them sexy as fuck.

He shifted his hips and drove into her again without aid. She whimpered despairingly, she was still sensitive from the previous intense climax, but her inner walls were throbbing welcoming his length back home, demanding something solid in spite of being sore. He held still inside her, pausing to reposition himself; sliding apart his bent knees towards her embrace so his broader stance would spread her wider. Predictably, one of her legs came up to enclose around his middle, instigating him to finally start pounding into her as she craved.

Marcus was certainly glad to deliver: his impromptu entry refined into progressive blissful counteroffensive incursions (avenging the relentless intimate grip she had on him) which exponentially turned the acute burning sensation into mind-blowing pleasure. He chose to uphold his whole weight on a single stretched arm, appreciating her facial responses from a distance and letting the other hand feel up the external part of the thigh surrounding him; getting intoxicated by the striking tremors of her extremities and the exciting sight of her head thrown back in the throes of pleasure whilst her body moved in counterpoint to his rhythmical pattern.

She was on the brink again, he could feel it. But he was going to finish before she could properly enjoy her peak and there was nothing he could do this time to stop it. He'd hold on as long as he could, sure, but he'd be damned if he didn't, at least, resort to his last resource. “Turn around,” he drunkenly growled, pulling out for the last time.

Her pupils dilated noticeably as she registered his request. She still remembered the first and only time they’d tried that position. He couldn't stop thinking about it. It had been their penultimate day in Polis. He'd wanted to have her in as many ways as possible. She'd never come faster before (or after).

She eagerly revolved and got on her knees, her head resting on its side on the mattress between her settled forearms so he could still see her face. She obliviously made an impressive work of proving why that commonly stereotyped submissive posture wasn't as such. It was irredeemably beckoning him to yielding surrender if anything.

He wasted no time to comply: kneeled and re-entered her from behind without further finesse. He immediately let his body down to cover her frame like a cloak, panting on her ear how sexy she was, how he was about to come. However, she wasn't expecting his left hand stealthily dragging down the front of her body to rub on her clit vigorously. The exquisite rear penetration angle persevering on her sensitive front wall along with the outside vibrant stimulation (and his hot words) had her cunt powerfully contracting in no time. But he burst before she had the chance to orgasm. He inwardly grunted with a couple of final erratic moving spasms and his whole body went immobile.

She wasn't going to get frustrated by the inconvenience; his cock - though spent - was going to remain hard against her favourite place for some precious seconds more. She brought her own hand down to join his fingers and successfully reactivate her aborted intense climax.

He came back down to earth in time to hear her gratifying moans of satisfaction, but his already waning cock was too sensitive to take pleasure on her wildly convulsing vaginal walls, so he regretfully had to draw back. He kissed her tilted forehead while doing so. He'd made it a ritual from their first night together. He'd always thought that pulling out after coming inside a woman felt way more intimate than getting inside in the first place. And he'd felt so grateful, so bare, so in love... He couldn't convey all of that, but he could try.

She smiled feeling the contact in the midst of her body’s cyclone. She knew what that meant on all occasions. She felt the same.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized for what he reckoned was an inconsiderate haste in coming; at the same moment he relieved both of them of the effort of holding their own weight, and let his back rest comfortably on the bed for good.

She interrupted her self-indulgent lethargic state to silence further nonsense from his lips (and his brain) with her own. She kissed his stupidity away while simultaneously expressing her approval

He closed his eyes, basking on the afterglow for a long time with a ridiculous grin on his delighted expression.

Maybe they did deserve happiness and had ultimately earned it underground.

He turned his head to look at her, anticipating the same exhausted, radiant look he loved to behold every time on her (and exult over the fact that he’d been the main agent behind that vision). He hadn't expected to see her reaching for her temple with a grimace on her face.

“Abby?” His voice full of confusion and concern.

“I’m going to...” she gestured, at the same time that she roused from the bed, for the small door on the corner of the room, probably a small lavatory facility for the bunker doctors.

“Ok,” he hesitantly conceded. She usually liked to do away with the biding post-sex cleaning and be able to relax later on clean sheets. But he couldn’t help but notice how she reached for a yellow bottle of pills inside her bag with a slightly trembling hand on her way to the bathroom.

Eric had indubitably assured him that the occasional headaches those first days after the treatment were completely natural. But he couldn’t escape from worrying about her health nevertheless.

Worry morphed into uneasiness as she came back to bed as good as new.

“Abby, what’s wrong?”

“It’s just a headache, Marcus. It will pass once the pills Jackson prescribed kick in. He said they were totally expected for a while; and as a doctor, I happen to agree with that assessment,” she calmly manifested as if she were neutrally reading a patient’s chart.

“Ok. But... didn’t you already take one shot before the service?”

A tense silence reigned in the room for a few seconds.

“No,” she categorically stated. “Marcus, everything's all right. You don't have to worry."

 

That was the first time she ever lied to him.

It wouldn't be the last.

 

 

***********

 

Battle of giants,

turns the air into natural gas.

A savage duel that warns,

how close I am to enter into a colossal world.

I feel my own fragility.

What a nightmare,

running, with a beast behind

Tell me it's all a lie,

a dumb dream and nothing more.

I fear the enormity,

where nobody hears my voice.

Stop lying, don't you try concealing,

you've passed without stumbling.

Paper monster,

I don't know who I am fighting against,

Is there really someone else?

Lucha de Gigantes – (Battle of Giants)

Antonio Vega

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first attempt at smut. Yes, what can I say...  
> So, kudos and comments will be constructive for me.  
> More than eternal gratitude JaneDoh7. You always translate my 'baroque' into 'human'


End file.
